


to err is human

by Katraa



Category: Persona 5
Genre: Angst, Frotting, I'm not sorry, M/M, Makeouts, PWP, Philosophy, Pretentious, Sexual Content, Snark, This got really long, UST, november - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 19:06:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12019107
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Katraa/pseuds/Katraa
Summary: to forgive, divine.It’s a matter of perspective.At least that’s what he tells himself so he can sleep at night.  His sleep isn’t sound, instead riddled with nightmares and roaming hands.  Hot whiskey eyes and bony fingers make themselves at home in his mind and he can’t escape.  There’s a bomb, ticking away, set to explode  – or perhaps implode? – in less than a month and yet he can’t help himself from wanting to play with the wires.





	to err is human

**Author's Note:**

> THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE SHORTER AND A LOT LESS SAD.  
> oh well.  
> this is what happens when you jokingly give me a prompt. i take it seriously.  
> also, this signals my return from my bar hiatus. i'm back to write awful filth for shuake.
> 
> wow this is the first porn i've written in awhile in a fic.  
> hot damn.

It’s a matter of perspective.

At least that’s what he tells himself so he can sleep at night. His sleep isn’t sound, instead riddled with nightmares and roaming hands. Hot whiskey eyes and bony fingers make themselves at home in his mind and he can’t escape. There’s a bomb, ticking away, set to explode – or perhaps implode? – in less than a month and yet he can’t help himself from wanting to play with the wires. 

Do it for the team, he thinks whenever he’s locked in an intellectual debate with the person dead set on ending his life. The more you know, he muses, the better equipped you’ll be when the time comes. Knowledge is power, they say, and it’s no secret that Goro Akechi is top of his class and wily enough to outwit most criminals. A worthy adversary for the Phantom Thieves had he not struck specific nerves in Akira. Had he not held a gun up his sleeve the entire time. Had he not aided in the merciless killing of countless victims. So do it for the team, he thinks, as his lips twitch in not-so-feigned amusement when Akechi waxes nigh poetry, his words dripping with saccharine malice. If all poison were that sweet – Akira thinks – then he can’t quite blame the fallen.

It’s late.

The team has disbanded for the evening. Morgana’s gone with Futaba and Sojiro’s apron is hung up with the promise that Akira will close up for the night after the good detective leaves. If he wasn’t such a regular – _quiet and respectful young man, you could learn something from him, kid_ – Sojiro likely would have kicked him out. But no. No, here is Akechi sitting on his stool, second to the end, one leg hooked over the other, foot idly tapping. Dexterous fingers comb over the fraying edges of a leather-bound planner and Akira fights the urge to crane his neck to peek at what’s inside. Probably a hit list.

There’s a draft sneaking its way in from under the door. The chilly November air is a sharp contrast to the warmth the coffee and curry bring to Leblanc. It’s almost as cold as the eyes peering up from behind brown fringe and cheap porcelain. 

“It certainly has its charm,” Akechi says, rim of his mug mere centimeters from his lips. “How did you find it?”

“Mementos?” Akira asks. Akechi nods. “Morgana showed us,” he begins to explain, “It wasn’t like that at first. The lower floors are kind of… screwed up. The upper floors are a lot less creepy.”

There’s a twitch of a smile and Akechi sets the mug down with a soft clink. “It is a bit unnerving, yes,” he easily agrees. “Was that the lowest you’ve reached?”

“Mm,” Akira says noncommittally. 

“I see,” Akechi says and that’s that.

There’s a tension in his shoulders that he can’t quite blame on slaying shadows. It’s been there for weeks but it’s only gotten worse the closer the end of November approaches. There’s certainly a correlation between his nerves and that day designated as his “suicide”, but hey, who’s counting? Correlation doesn’t necessarily mean causation, he reasons, but he isn’t as talented a liar as the teen sitting across the counter.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you,” Akechi pipes up once more, his eyes trained to the planner.

“Go ahead.” Akira’s hand rises to push the center of his glasses further up his nose in order to readjust them. 

“Where do you get your weapons? They’re impressive replicas. I imagine something of that caliber can’t simply be bought at a box store.”

“Ah.” Akira considers, chewing on the inside of his cheek. There’s something poetic about telling Akechi – the potential for his own words, his own connection, to be used against him. The potential for Akechi to acquire a replica that could easily be shoved against the side of his neck, barrel cold and _so real_ in the Metaverse. The potential for it to erupt, splattering the wall with pretty red blood that matches his gloves. “I have a guy.”

There’s a puff of air that’s definitely a laugh. “Doesn’t everyone?” Akechi muses but he sets his pen down and regards Akira with a practiced smile. “You’ve been here less than a year and yet you seem to have infiltrated the darkest corners of the city.”

“You have no idea.” Akira can’t help the near shit-eating grin that crops up. Between Takemi and Iwai, he’s definitely cornered the dark market, and that’s excluding the corrupt criminals he’s encountered while tramping through the Metaverse. 

“You could enlighten,” Akechi fires back and there’s a furtive look in his eyes that sets the amber ablaze.

“I could,” Akira says lazily, hand reaching up to fidget with the front of his bangs this time. “But where’s the fun in that?”

“That’s true,” Akechi agrees because of course he does, so pleasant and needlessly accommodating. “Well, if you’re feeling particularly magnanimous I’m all ears. I’m always eager to learn more about the underpinnings of the city.”

“I can lend you my diary,” Akira deadpans. 

Akechi’s face does this ugly sort of scrunching. There’s genuine confusion that’s quickly replaced with surprise that eventually melts into amusement. It’s truly a spectale and Akira wishes his eyes could take photographs because it’s something, amidst all the darkness and the hate and the lies, he wants to preserve. That, and to send to every news station within a fifty-mile radius.

“You never cease to surprise me, Joker.” It sounds so _wrong_ on his lips. Worse than Kurusu ever could. 

“I have that effect on people,” Akira says and rounds the corner of the bar to head towards the door. Nimble fingers flip the flimsy sign to ‘Closed’ and he watches as Akechi’s brows shoot up his forehead, hands beginning to quickly shuffle papers together into a single pile. Akira lifts a hand. Akechi stops.

“It seems I’ve overstayed my welcome again,” Akechi says in a way that’s tragically beautiful. It’s magnetic and riddled with layers and layers of meaning that Akira can’t even begin to parse through. It’s frustrating and alluring all at once and that’s probably a problem.

“It’s fine,” Akira finds himself saying, shoulders rolling into a shrug. 

There’s a heaviness in the air. Akechi’s hands haven’t left his papers nor have his eyes left the mess of curls on top of Akira’s head. There’s a distinct lack of eye-contact that only adds to the inexplicable tension settling in the otherwise empty café. 

“Did you have something in mind, in that case?”

It’s a loaded question. As loaded as the gun that’s likely in the detective’s trenchcoat or attaché case. 

“You’re not subtle, you know,” Akira starts, hand usually cupped to the back of his neck, his feet rooted to the spot despite his nonchalant statement. 

“Excuse me?” There they go again, Akech’s thin eyebrows dancing on his forehead. There’s a puzzled look blossoming on his face and Akira idly wonders if he gets that look when he reads over a new case for the first time.

“The Baton Pass. When we find treasure,” Akira lists, his tongue pressing to the back of his front teeth after, picking the right words, “If you want something, you should just take it. Or do something about it. You’re a thief now, after all.”

The tension’s grown to palpable levels. Akechi’s expression is indecipherable, lips drawn into a thin line. Hook, line and … 

“I’m sorry, what exactly are you implying?” There it is again, that insufferable smile that’s nine parts toxic and one part beauty.

“You’re a detective, figure it out,” Akira responds, words slow, deliberate, measured. His breathing, on the other hand, is nothing of the sort, coming now in quick, silent intakes. 

“Are you … goading me?” Akechi asks, puzzled, and then follows it up with a mirthless laugh. “I’m not sure what you think, Kurusu, but I can assure you—”

“Ah.” Akira brushes past him on the way to the stairs, plucking the straps of his apron one by one. Slowly, he hangs the fabric up on the hook and _dares_ to look back over his shoulder, a definitive coyness in every single motion. “That’s a shame, then. I was kinda bored—” his feet take him to the end of the bar, mere inches from Akechi, “—and Morgana’s not usually gone for the night, so—” shoulders roll into a shrug and he meets tepid brown eyes, guts staunch, “I guess I’ll see you later, Akechi.”

“Yes,” Akechi answers after a weighty pause in conversation, his belongings now being neatly stowed away in his briefcase, “Do let me know if the team is meeting up. I’ll do my best to make myself available.”

Akira deflates, irritation lighting up his cells in a way he can’t quite explain or justify. Of all the possible reactions, ranging from flustered disapproval to outright disgust, never did Akira account for a version of reality where Akechi politely turned him down, seemingly unfazed, and then made his leave. At least have the courtesy to seem _flattered_ , asshole.

Akechi rises from the stool, hand brushing his hair gracefully behind his ear. Everything the boy does is grace and flourishes and Akira’s eyes are fixated, hanging on every single movement. There’s a considerable time – twenty seconds to be exact – where Akira is convinced that Akechi is about to turn on his heel and leave for the evening. In that time, Akira has already begun to dissect the entire evening, word by word, his body buzzing and whirring with wanton _desire_.

“Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And if you gaze long enough into an abyss, the abyss will gaze back into you,” Akechi quotes, unmoving.

Akira doesn’t answer at first. No, his mind is too busy rattling through metaphorical file cabinets trying to place the familiar words. 

“Nietzsche,” Akechi supplies the answer. 

Their eyes meet again and Akira’s mouth feels exceptionally dry. “You’re quoting philosophy at me?” It’s a dumb question, truly, but it seems rather fitting given the company he’s keeping.

Akechi makes a noise of agreement as he places his case on the barstool. “You’re propositioning the one person that has enough evidence to easily oust the Phantom Thieves. I would call you reckless, but … perhaps I already knew that.” The smile dawning his face is downright unnerving. 

“Then you’re calling me a monster?” Akira wonders, not exactly put-off.

“A word of caution, more than anything,” Akechi says and has the audacity to _wink_. 

“So in this analogy, are you the abyss?”

“Perhaps,” muses Akechi, hand reaching up to delicately frame his own chin, the picture of contemplation. It’s complete bullshit. “Do you know of him? Nietzsche?”

“You have your way. I have my way. As for the right way, the correct way, and the only way, it does not exist,” Akira says and it’s answer enough. The implications weigh just as heavy as the tension. Akira’s eyes glimmer with a look akin to _Joker_ , confident, shrewd and _powerful_. _I dare you_ , the words all but scream, twisting and churning in the air.

“Well done. I shouldn’t have expected any less from our fearless leader,” Akechi crows on Akira’s behalf, eyes twinkling in the dim light of the café. The case remains forgotten on the stool as Akechi takes a deliberate step forward, closing the minute distance between them. They aren’t touching, not quite, but the detective’s eyes are focused intently on Akira.

 _Do it for the team_ , Akira reminds himself, his own thoughts reduced to whimpers. _More like do it for your dick_ he reprimands, a shudder racing down his spine the second he feels Akechi’s breath ghost over his face.

“It’s been fun,” Akechi admits, voice pleasant and not at all genuine, “playing hero with you and your friends. I can’t thank you enough for the distraction and opportunity to learn the inner workings of the infamous Phantom Thieves.” Akira has a few ideas how he can show his appreciation. “So I suppose I can entertain your whims, as silly as they are.”

Having someone label your emotions silly, even if they are purely lust-driven (or so you tell yourself), is off-putting but for some reason it makes a heat settle low in Akira’s stomach. His nerves ignite and he watches as Akechi’s hand lifts. There’s a second where Akira is convinced it’s going to touch him but it doesn’t, Akechi instead opting to bring his index and middle finger to his lips. In one deft motion the detective tugs off the glove and lets it fall to the floor. It doesn’t make a sound.

Pale, cold fingers climb their way onto Akira’s face. Heat colors Akira’s face red as the fingers trace his jaw and then proceed to thread back into a heap of curls. It’s electrifying. It’s _dangerous_. Akechi’s thumb darts out and skims Akira’s bottom lip, coming to a stop at the edge of his mouth.

“Sometimes people don't want to hear the truth because they don't want their illusions destroyed,” quotes Akechi, eyes half-lidded, angled down at Akira’s lips and not the conflict present in steely grey. “Are you certain you don’t want this to remain a fantasy, Kurusu?”

“Pretty sure,” Akira answers automatically. It’s impossible not to brush his lips against Akechi’s thumb as he speaks, the sensation doing all sorts of dastardly things to his self-restraint.

“Hmm, I see…” Akechi says thoughtfully and then abruptly seizes Akira’s chin, meeting his gaze head-on. “Perhaps it’s preferable to ask this now rather than later,” he begins, Akira’s gut dropping, “but what exactly did you have in mind when you asked me to your room?”

Does he want a goddamn diagram? Akira’s heart is thundering loudly in his chest despite how indifferent his gaze appears. Negotiating with shadows teaches you something useful after all. “What… you want a play by play?”

“Now that you mention it,” Akechi says, his voice saturated with _delight_ , “I wouldn’t be opposed, no.”

“Wow,” Akira says and almost laughs. _Almost_. Instead of answering, his lips twist into a grin that screams Joker, “There are no beautiful surfaces without a terrible depth.” 

“Then it seems we’re in agreement,” Akechi decides, that pleasant smile still glued on his face. However, there’s something darker, something _wild_ in his gaze as his grip tightens on Akira’s chin, blunt fingernails nearly digging into his tender flesh. It’s hot. It’s inexplicably hot and Akira curses himself for having gone to the gym the day prior. 

Akira is about to question that, about to ask for clarification, but it’s too late. Akechi closes the agonizingly small distance between them. But it’s not a kiss. Not quite. It’s a pair of lips at the far end of Akira’s jaw, right below his ear, and then again along the column of his neck.

Akira’s breath catches in his throat and he almost _whines_ at how nice it feels. It shouldn’t. It shouldn’t feel this erotic and _amazing_ to have lips brushing against his neck but it makes his dick twitch and he bites down on his bottom lip now that it’s free. 

“Tell me, Kurusu,” Akechi says, voice hot and thick like molasses, “what are your terrible depths?”

There’s teeth now along his earlobe and Akira’s hand is uselessly gripping onto Akechi’s side, unaware of when it even got there in the first place. A stupid answer surfaces _Well, I like knives and I think I’d be pretty okay with sucking you off in the middle of Leblanc_ , but he manages to piece together fragments of coherent thought, “Why don’t I show you instead?”

The invisible thread between them pulls and it’s all downhill from there.

It takes approximately thirty-nine seconds to climb the steps and slam back onto the futon. It takes another five seconds before Akechi is pushing him down, crawling on him with one hand gripping at his throat, the other pressing down against the fabric for support. And then it’s a mere two seconds more before a knee is wedging his legs apart.

“Forgive me for making assumptions, but…” Akechi says, a twinkle in his eyes as his hand loosely brackets Akira’s throat, “…you strike me as the type to enjoy a bit of danger.”

“Guilty,” Akira breathes. The hand around his throat tightens. “Don’t leave any bruises, though. Boss will get suspicious and throw my delinquent ass back out on the streets,” he jokes, lewd and honest and turned on beyond all measure.

“Of course,” Akechi agrees easily enough, “At least, not anywhere visible.”

Another wave of arousal hits Akira and despite the slight pressure against his windpipe he finds himself unable to stop the incessant pounding of his heart. When he had propositioned Akechi, he had expected maybe a few awkward kisses and if he got lucky, some well-timed groping. He hadn’t expected to be pinned down to his futon, Akechi towering over him, equally likely to choke him as he was to kiss him.

“Man is born free, and everywhere he is in chains,” Akechi breathes hotly against his ear, his hand slipping away from Akira’s throat at long last. It doesn’t go far, though, snaking down his side to ruck up the fabric of his shirt. It’s ticklish in a way Akira doesn’t suspect, and he almost bucks Akechi off him when he feels ghostly fingertips twining their way along his ribs and up his chest. He nearly shrieks when the pad of a thumb brushes roughly against his nipple.

“Do you happen to know that one, Kurusu?” Akechi asks, teeth scraping along the shell of his ear.

“No,” Akira admits. 

“Ah,” Akechi laughs lowly, and it’s nothing like the bubbly sound on TV. “It’s a personal favorite of mine,” he elucidates.

“Oh yeah? By who?” Akira’s mind is short-circuiting, blips of white exploding behind his eyes as he struggles to remain still. His senses are overloading and every single cell in his body is vibrating with pleasure. It’s embarrassing to be honest.

“Jean-Jacques Rousseau,” says Akechi and accentuates it with a bite to Akira’s ear. 

“Will there be a pop-quiz after this?” Akira jokes after he’s done gasping.

“I wouldn’t be so cruel,” Akechi hums and there’s that laugh again, dark and full of delightful promise, Akechi’s lips making their way down his throat. 

“Lucky me,” Akira says and he ignores the painful pang in his gut, the bitterness in his mouth that tastes an awful lot like a bullet. 

Akechi doesn’t say more. Instead, the brunette focuses his attention on removing Akira’s shirt. The garment is easily discarded on the floor and Akira’s about to reach out to insistently tug at Akechi’s sweater, but he’s too slow. Akechi’s mouth is like fire on his collarbone. It’s all Akira can do but to thrust his hands into Akechi’s perfectly soft hair and _tug_.

And by some miracle, he feels a certain part of Akechi throb against his thigh. _Of course he’s into that_ , Akira thinks to himself and he does it again. This time, it earns Akechi’s narrowed gaze accompanying another noticeable throb.

“Kurusu,” he says, flatly.

“Akechi,” Akira returns, a grin blossoming without his permission.

“I wouldn’t—” Akechi begins to admonish but Akira’s quicker this time. _This time_ Akira’s grin reaches its final form, a mischievous smirk, and he angles his hips up.

It leaves them both breathless. 

The friction is better than Akira thought and he’s instantly regretting it, because getting himself off after this is going to be _such a disappointment_. Akechi’s face flushes a pretty pink and his lips fall apart, every single muscle tensing. Apparently dry-humping hadn’t even been a part of the equation for Akechi because he looks like he’s unable to process the effect it had on his body.

 _Did he think he was going to just quiz me on philosophy the entire time?_ Akira wonders but doesn’t ask. Instead, he lifts his hips once more, mindful to rub their crotches together with a bit of effort and flexibility.

“ _Kurusu_ ,” Akechi all but hisses, eyes screwing shut and hand clutching tightly against Akira’s side.

Oh. _Oh_. The biting and dominance had certainly been hot, had certainly turned Akira on, and the friction had been pretty damn good, but the rawness of Akechi’s voice, the _depth_ of his voice with his name dying on his lips … that did it. That was the hottest thing he had ever heard.

“Listening,” Akira cheekily answers and takes the opportunity to begin a barrage of open-mouthed kisses along Akechi’s jaw and neck. Payback is a bitch, or so he’s been told.

Akechi’s confidence wilts faster than a flower. The bravado from before disappears and the brunette is a trembling mess of limbs, clinging to Akira for dear life. Even so, there’s underpinnings of conflict, as if Akechi can’t exactly let himself go entirely. Akira knows, but doesn’t comment. It’s better that way. For the both of them.

“First time?” Akira laughs but it loses all its humor when Akechi snaps his hips down against Akira’s. It’s absolutely wonderful and Akira feels around wave of heat crawl down the back of his neck and land in the pool of his stomach. Pressure is already beginning to build and he wonders just how sexually frustrated he is to be this loss to orgasm from a few minutes of dry-humping. 

“Shut up,” Akechi snaps, restraint crumbling as he cants his head to the side and sears their lips together.

Akira isn’t expecting it. Sex is businesslike and easily be viewed as a transaction of sorts between teammates. Alleviating tension, helping a friend out. So long as they aren’t making out, it’s easy to write off any and all possibility of attachment. 

Except Akechi kisses him. Except the desperation in Akechi’s kiss leaves him breathless and turned on even more than the hips rutting against his own.

So Akira cups the back of Akechi’s head and kisses him back. It’s a mashing of lips that’s not at all graceful but it’s wet and warm and Akira feels his nerves finally catch on fire. The last shred of dignity and restraint he has disappears and he hooks his right leg around Akechi’s thin waist and _drags_ him flush down against him. 

Akira can’t quite tell who it is, but one of them is whining into the kiss. Maybe it’s both. The pleasure is unbelievable and Akira is amazed at how quickly he can gyrate his hips in deliberate circles. 

Akechi breaks the kiss first and Akira is about to follow his lips before he realizes how _beautiful_ he is in that moment. Breathless, mouth hanging open, face red and body pressing desperately against Akira’s. It’s almost enough to send Akira over the edge. It’s enough to make Akira shove his hand down the front of Akechi’s pants, beneath the waistband of his boxers, and grip the base of his dick.

“ _Akira_ ,” Akechi chokes, face contorting in irritation and agonized want. His hips bucks against his wishes and he’s frenziedly pushing into Akira’s hand. 

Akira doesn’t answer him, doesn’t acknowledge how hearing his given name makes his heart skip two beats. All Akira does is drag his hand clumsily up the length of Akechi’s dick, thumb swiping to coat his fingers in precum. And then begins pumping.

The best part is that given their current positions, every time he jerks Akechi’s dick, they’re close enough that his hand pushes fabric against his own neglected hardon. It’s not as good as dry-humping, and certainly not as good as the handjob he’s giving Akechi, but Akira doesn’t think he needs much to get off at this point. 

Akechi comes with a surprisingly earnest moan, forehead pressing hard to Akira’s shoulder. Akira’s hand is soaking and sticky and he waits until Akechi’s hips still before his hand retreats. Nearly on the edge himself, Akira moves his hand to the front of his pants, about to undo them, but a hand swats his soiled one again. Akechi’s fingers curl through the fabric and start to rub and the hot, out of breath puffs near his neck send him over the edge in a matter of seconds.

He moans louder than he intends but that’s fine, because the orgasm is one of the best of his life. His body arches off the futon and he shamelessly rides it out, pushing his hips against Akechi’s hand until the tremors die down.

Neither of them speak. Not at first.

Akechi remains where he is, face hidden, and Akira stares up at the ceiling, heart flittering like a hummingbird. He’s dizzy. He’s so happy and dizzy and thinks that maybe this is what being drunk feels like.

He hadn’t meant to kiss Akechi. He hadn’t meant to actually touch him that way. He hadn’t meant any of this because as the afterglow wears off, he’s left with the numbing reality that Akechi is going to kill him. That this changes nothing and that Akechi has blood on his hands and is a crazy, twisted, messed up kid. But _god_ does Akira wishes he could change things. It’s the most selfish thought he’s ever had.

“Well,” Akechi finally says against Akira’s shoulder, his voice already reclaiming the impersonal tone, “I should… use your restroom and clean up.”

“Yeah,” Akira says and awkwardly removes his left hand from Akechi’s hair, mindful not to catch on any tangles.

Akechi rises to his feet, face still pink, hands moving to adjust himself. He almost pouts at the sensation of cooling cum in his boxers. 

He’s almost at the top of the stairs by the time Akira sits up and says, “Akechi?”

“Hm?” He looks back over his shoulder, eyes just this side of vulnerable. “What is it?”

He can quote philosophy, he can slay shadows, he can change the hearts of even the most crooked criminals. He can win the hearts of women easily, he can make bonds with strangers all over the city. He can reach the top of his class and set records in anything he puts his mind to. He can befriend anyone and yet –

And yet –

“…It’s nothing.”

_I'm not upset that you lied to me, I'm upset that from now on I can't believe you._


End file.
